


May Cause Excitability

by thatoldbroad



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017) RPF
Genre: Crack, M/M, The Author Regrets Everything, The Author Regrets Nothing, Weirdness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-30
Updated: 2018-11-30
Packaged: 2019-09-02 18:47:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16792645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatoldbroad/pseuds/thatoldbroad
Summary: NyQuil has unexpected side effects on Timmy. The Pina Colada Song is involved.





	May Cause Excitability

**Author's Note:**

> This is the weirdest thing I've ever written. Also, possibly the most ridiculous. Enjoy?
> 
> Inspired by this image: https://enjayforshort.tumblr.com/post/180482753741/werk-it-babe.

The barricade that Armie had cobbled together from two upturned folding chairs, five throw pillows, a down comforter, and an empty Amazon Prime box that Timmy had shoved under his couch to be recycled later saved Armie yet again. He ducked behind it just in time to avoid being hit by the stick-end of a partially licked lollipop that was tossed in his direction, scarily, accurately aimed at his head. He might have lost an eye if that tuck-and-roll hadn’t been instinctive. And it was, by now. Nevermind his clumsy land at a belly flop; more importantly, he won’t yet be known as Patches or The One-Eyed Hammer, destined to be a pirate caricature for life. Perspective: it was handy in an emergency. 

And when besieged by the urgent desire to rage-tweet.

Armie’s thumbs hovered above his phone. They were ready to type and dish out something scathing. He was paused only because of past . . . questionable judgment. True that he has been . . . impulsive and . . . reckless. But this time was different. This time demanded answers. Justice! Vicks deserved his rage. 

Sure, NyQuil’s Drug Facts warned for drowsiness. A skin rash or an elevated fever, if heaven forbid Timmy had an allergic reaction. And Armie knew from personal experience that cotton head could be expected--i.e., that part of the brain intended for processing beyond how to stay upright while taking a piss might be temporarily closed for business. But it failed to warn for _erratic spurts of homicidal behavior and the sudden, occasional flinging of sharp objects with deadly precision_. Or demonic possession, which Armie considered briefly when Timmy’s pupils momentarily went red. Neither did it warn for--

_if you like Pina Coladas, and getting caught in rain  
if you’re not into yoga, if you have half a brain_

\--spontaneous striptease. 

Armie peeked past the barricade. There it was: the shimmy-Timmy shuffle. And it was baffling. A puzzle wrapped in a riddle, sandwiched in an enigma, divided by a paradox--because what sort of chemical cocktail inspired a DIY burlesque special, cued at fifteen minute intervals, to the tune of The Pina Colada Song? Also, a form of torture, because Timmy insisted that he remove only one article of clothing per striptease at a time. Which meant that he would be naked in--sweater, sweater, sweater, t-shirt, fingerless gloves, left sock, two scarves, leg warmers, boxers, pink wig--three hours and fifteen minutes.

But it was a sweet torture. Literally. Timmy had poured honey on his fingers and was licking it off, balanced on one leg, while his other hand proceeded to seductively peel off his left sock. Meanwhile, his hips continued to rotate. And gyrate. And was that a--yes, a tiny booty-bump at _we'll plan our escape_ to punctuate the reveal, _finally_ , of that bony ankle. What a feat, of grace and flexibility and resilience, and _truth_ : those hips don’t lie. And as the left sock gradually approached the curve of Timmy’s left heel, Armie felt a sudden grief that he wasn’t within vicinity to catch it with his ear, the one not already adorned by the right sock that had been shed previously.

Needless to say, of the oddball consequences from ingesting 30 mL of NyQuil, Armie preferred the shimmy-Timmy shuffle over having to zip in and out of Timmy’s shooting range like a human dartboard or acting as Timmy’s Jeeves on his senseless demands. The last three harrowingly involved cup-of-noodles--not to be eaten, but to be observed, because “it’s so awesome how the noodles go soft in, like, three minutes!” It was not so awesome when, once, Armie tried to talk Timmy out of another round (such waste, so many hungry people in the world), and Timmy sprang from his pitiful, fetal-like position on the couch to latch onto Armie’s side, teeth-bared, _like a fucking gremlin_.

His dick agreed. The shimmy-Timmy shuffle was much preferred. Half-hard, it urged Armie _save it, save it_ for the spank bank, and Armie shrugged and unlocked his phone. He zoomed the camera on Timmy and hit video. He supposed the tweet at Vicks could wait.

Minutes later, the music stopped. And so did Armie’s other hand, which had found its way inside his pants. Timmy was crumpled on the floor swan-like, pink wig artistically fanned out, reminiscent of the eighth time Armie fucked him against the bathroom wall of a New York City diner while he was wearing it dressed like Sailor Moon’s hotter, younger sister for Halloween, two months after Halloween. Ah, memories. And when Timmy stretched back and extended his legs, head still bowed and a tissue held to his nose, yet another memory emerged from the corner of his mind to make his insides _ache_. And Armie could no more resist a sniffling and congested Timmy than Oliver could resist a soft and raw Elio nursing a nosebleed. The poor, psychotic darling.

But Armie approached cautiously. Carefully, he navigated his way through the disaster that had become Timmy’s living room, which appeared like a gaggle of toddlers had been let loose in it and told “Toys! Toys! Find all the toys!” And no nook or cranny was left undisturbed.

Armie stopped crawling when he was within arm’s reach. From his pocket, he pulled out a packet of wipes and cleaned his right hand. Next, he unwrapped a lollipop from the stash he carried around his neck via a Boba Wrap and extended it. A truce. Then he waited. If Timmy snatched it away like a starved diabetic, he would know to still keep his distance--i.e., hightail it to the barricade pronto. But if he was back, if the personality-changing properties of NyQuil were flushed from his system, finally--

“Hi,” Timmy said, smiling, and shoved the lollipop in his mouth. Armie scrutinized him; it could still be a trick. But, no, his eyes had lost their hostile edge. Now, they were sweet and adoring, affectionate, and when Timmy lifted his arms toward Armie and made grabby hands at him, Armie thought _thank goodness_. Relieved. His Gizmo-Timmy was back, along with his always-ready-to-cuddle attitude. Shortly, they were settled on the couch, tangled like weeds in a virgin forest.

“That was . . . unexpected.”

“I know,” Timmy sighed against Armie’s neck. “I’m sorry. I should’ve warned you.”

“Vicks should’ve warned me. Which reminds me--” Armie pulled out his phone and proceeded to type.

Timmy wriggled up his chest to look at what he had written. “But it is on the label.” Timmy took Armie’s phone from his hand and googled NyQuil’s Drug Facts. He pointed at _may cause excitability_. “See?”

“That means hyper-active. Or, I don’t know, more restless than usual.”

“Also: rage, fury, impatience, tantrum, surliness, danger,” Timmy read from thesaurus.com. “That’s what the judge told my mom when she sued the company when I was eight--'excitability could be interpreted broadly.' Then he dismissed her case.”

“Ouch,” Armie said, and returned the phone to his pocket. Best to rage-tweet another day.

“On the upside, that’s also when she realized I had a penchant.”

“For acting?”

Timmy’s eyes flashed red. “For shapeshifting.” And he bared his teeth.


End file.
